


Our steps turned to blocks, and the blocks turned to miles

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Series: Homecoming [13]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 18:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5426912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas this year includes something extra: Emily stateside. Permanently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our steps turned to blocks, and the blocks turned to miles

It starts easy enough, as things do with the two of them. It’s still new, shiny, beautiful, to have each other around all the time, to go to bed together and know that they’ll be waking up side-by-side. Neither of them can really believe it most of the time. So, it means that they’re both just easy for each other, for what they do to each other.

Thus, when Hotch catches Emily under the mistletoe, well. It’s not a surprise that it escalates from there.

They like hosting parties at Dave’s. It’s just something they do at this point, his huge kitchen and larger family room, cozy and warm and full of the people they all love the most. They laugh, they chirp, they hug and talk and just… They celebrate. Sure, they take an hour and light little candles, remember the people they’d lost, the moments that hadn’t measured up, but they also take a moment to remember those they’ve found again, Joy and Emily, to acknowledge Tara and what she’s done in the absence of Alex.

Good and bad.

And it’s after that, when Emily’s returning to the living room with a full glass of wine and Hotch heading for the kitchen to top his up, that it happens.

The doorway’s huge, so it’s not like they have to squeeze in, but Jack, ecstatic, so, so joyful Jack, just loses it.

“Mistletoe!”

It catches everyone’s attention - of course - and results in cat-calls and wolf-whistles – of course. Hotch leans in as Emily laughs and kisses her. It’s meant to be short, they both know that. Short and sweet and enough to get everyone off their backs. Except the moment his mouth touches hers it’s not enough. They both know it. Her body cants towards his automatically and he doesn’t realize he’s wrapped an arm around her waist until Derek calls out, “Get a room.”

That’s where it starts.

On nights like this it’s a hum beneath his skin and hers, this draw and pull. They start orbiting each other, little glances, fleeting touches, reminders that now that they’ve started, broken the seal so to speak, they have to be extra careful. This is exactly the type of beginning that ends with them all but tripping over each other when they get home, hot and desperate.

A simple kiss can still do it.

They build each other up with a careful sense of deliberation, a strange sort of straight chicken to push each other into finally calling it a night. Tonight, he lets her win, leans over the back of her couch where she’s talking animatedly to JJ, shooting him hot little looks out of the corner of her eye.

“Ready to go?”

He ignores JJ’s smirk as Emily cuts off mid-sentence and acknowledges him instead, a quick agreement and a quicker donning of coats. Even Jack, who is thankfully fading fast. He dozes in the back while they drive and Emily cannot help but take advantage. Her hand slides over Hotch’s knee, up his thigh.

“Emily.”

She hums innocently, slides her hand up just a little bit further and he drops his hand to take hers, slide it back down his thigh.

“Let’s get home.” But his voice is already rough and it makes her shiver, her hand clenching reflexively on his leg. Her fingers can’t stop twitching under his, her breath already coming fast. Jack barely murmurs a goodnight once they’re inside the door, trudging up to his bedroom. Both Emily and Hotch take their time stripping off their coats, hanging them up, dragging the leftovers and gifts into the kitchen.

She’s putting the last of the turkey leftovers into the fridge when she feels him step up behind her. He wraps his arms around her waist, tugs her back. She lets the door swing closed, her arm coming up to tangle in his hair as he buries his face in her neck. He doesn’t waist time, pressing his mouth to her skin. She arches her neck, gives him more space to work. His hands slide down to the hem of her soft red sweater, slip beneath it to the satin camisole beneath.

He tugs the sweater over her head and she lets him, hears it rustle quietly to the floor. They’re going to have to pick that up before they make it upstairs, but his hands return to her body almost immediately and she’s not exactly anxious to step away. Instead, she braces herself against the fridge doors as his hands slip under the camisole, dance across her skin right above the waistband of her pants.

“Sweetheart.”

She should tell him to stop. She knows that’s what he’s asking, even though he isn’t asking a damn thing. They should stop, go upstairs, do this where they are most definitely not going to be caught if Jack happens to stumble downstairs for water, but she just… She wants him. Circling him for hours has left her antsy and anxious, the brief taste of his mouth under the mistletoe a brief, unsatisfying tease.

So she cants her hips into his hand instead, just a little, just enough for him to know this is what she wants. He groans into her neck, a vibration right against her pulse point that pushes a gasp from her throat. He unbuttons her jeans and slides the zipper down quickly and efficiently, presses that same palm wide against her stomach. His other arm wraps under her breasts and she folds her own across it, tangles their fingers together. She braces her body against his and widens her stance. It gives him room to work as much as it stabilizes her balance.

“I didn’t get to touch you this morning,” he murmurs into her neck. They’ve been go, go, go all day, adding their own preparations to tonight’s dinner, grabbing and wrapping last minute gifts, decorations, ingredients. It feels like the first time she’s had him to herself all day and she knows he feels it too.

“Touch me now.”

It’s not a request he’s going to say no to. His fingers slip beneath the waistband of her panties, dance just above where she’s already wet and wanting. She moans quietly, clenches her fingers around his. “Tease.”

He laughs into her shoulder, presses wet kisses along her skin leaving her shivering. Meanwhile, he angles his wrist, slips his palm down and into her panties. His fingers slide lightly through her wetness.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs into her skin again and she arches a little, presses her shoulder blades into his chest. She needs more than just the gentle touch of his fingers, needs him to press in, to touch her for real.

“Please,” she breathes. “Come on.”

He can’t deny her anything, especially now. She’s not much better, of course, awareness and gratefulness, how close they came to not having each other at all. It’s heady, especially like this, when they’re surrounding each other, when there’s nothing to do but each other.

His fingers spread her, dip briefly into her before sliding up around her clit. He’s spreading her slick around, still teasing, still not giving her what she wants. Her panties are already soaked, have been damp for what feels like ages, but he’s intent on taking his time. At least up until the moment she slides her hand into her panties with his, wiggles a little until her jeans give them both enough room. She uses his fingers to stroke, to play, to press harder against her clit than he was. She wants this first one fast and hard, then he can go as slow as he’d please.

He tries to slow her down, probably could when she thinks about it, but she also knows he loves to watch her come, loves the way her legs shake and shiver, the flush in her cheeks and on her chest. She tips her head back to his shoulder, grinds down into his palm.

“God, sweetheart.”

She moans as he matches her rhythm, matches her, sends her careening over that edge hard and fast. She leans heavily against him when it fades, as she comes back to herself. He rests his palm on her lower stomach, his wet fingers not even a gentle press against her sensitive clit. His other arm is tight under her breasts, his mouth gentle against her neck and jaw.

When she’s sure her legs will hold her, she takes the hand under her breast, turns to kiss him softly, steadily. “Upstairs.”

“Right behind you.”

She laughs a little but goes on ahead, strips out of her clothes once the bedroom door is closed behind her. She’s pulling down the sheets when he steps in and she hears his harsh intake of breath, feels the flush spread over her chest and shoulders. He does this to her too when he’s naked, just gets her, that she gets to have him.

She feels him come up behind her, press his mouth to the back of her naked shoulder. She lifts her hand, presses it against his cheek. “Naked.”

He makes quick work of it, then comes back for her, wraps her up against him. His hand is clean and dry as he slides it up her back, holds her head to angle the kiss exactly where he wants. She’s happy to let him lead, hums into his mouth as she meets his tongue, every press of his mouth. Her hands are not still either, spreading over his hips, his ass.

There isn’t anything sexy about how they climb into bed, nothing sweet. She climbs in one side, him the other, because they know better by this point than to try anything too acrobatic. He reaches for her the minute he’s settled, pulls her to straddle him. She goes easily, willingly, pressed against him. He’s hard between her legs and she rocks, just a little, enough to make them both moan.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs into her mouth, slides his hand down her back again to cup and knead an ass cheek. She laughs, but lifts, lets him position himself against her. The slide down is slow and delicious, the way it always is when she’s not humming and desperate for it. This isn’t a desperate time. This is the holiday season, the joy and pleasure of being able to celebrate with him and _with_ him.

“Aaron,” she breathes into his mouth when she’s fully seated, doesn’t give him a chance to reply before she rolls her hips, starts them off in a gentle rhythm. It doesn’t hold long, but it holds long enough to have his hands clenching on her hips as she speeds up, has him thrusting up into her as she comes down. His hands slip and slide over every sensitive spot on her body and she returns the favour, bites down just a little against his pulse point. He groans and presses two fingers to her clit, just holds steady while she thrusts down on him until she’s coming, dragging him over the edge with her.

She kisses him when she comes back to herself, slowly, languidly. “Merry Christmas.”

He hums, kisses her again. “Merry Christmas.”

They lie in the afterglow for a moment before Hotch runs his hand along her side. “Come on. Shower. We still have gifts to wrap.”

Santa gifts and stockings, her own little surprise present she’s kept hidden in the mixing bowls where Hotch never seems to go. She sighs one more time, kisses his neck and cheek as she climbs off him and heads to the shower.

They’ll have time for round two later.


End file.
